Drunken Teenage Philosophy
by convivialGrimace
Summary: Billy reflecting on his surprising, yet fitting end and what came after it, with Spencer's occasional recollections of moving to Beverly Heights. Warning: emetophobia, teenage drinking, death, and possible gore triggers in the first chapter. Additional warning: this isn't as serious (or as quality) as you think it is. NO LONGER UPDATING
1. Chapter 1

_So, uh, hi. This is my first fanfiction. For this whole fandom, that is, I'm otherwise no stranger to fiction-writing. I'm in denial regarding DTMG fandom stuff but I still did it. And I didn't take it as seriously as I probably should've. So uh. Please rate optimistically!_

_Warning: there's emetophobia and teenage drinking and probably vague gore? Not anything too graphic regarding the gore, really just creative but brief hyperbole, but the rest is probably disgusting. So don't read if that stuff triggers you._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Brommanuel Kant, if I say this, you won't believe me. Okay, maybe you'd believe me, but you wouldn't exactly be _chill_ about this whole ordeal.

Who'd think that Billy Joe Cobra, the world's greatest and most famous pop star, with billions of adoring fans and hundreds of hair styling product endorsements, was the sad sack who almost literally puked his guts out at the biggest Beverly Heights party of the year?

I mean, come on, major mood killer. You walk out on the lawn all, oh, hey, you're Billy Joe Cobra, I'm a huge fan, how's it going? Could I get an autograph? Haha, wait a minute, you're asleep aren't you. Duh, classic BJC. Heh. So, hey now. This is so weird, I might as well be talking to myself. Billy, wake up, you sleep like the dead. Jeez. I got some 'za, y'know, I saved you a slice 'cuz you're my bro. 'Cuz we're bros. Even if we don't know each other. It's 'za, man, I got the '_za_. Piz-za. The good kind. Dude, Billy, are you unconscious? Billy. Wake up and smell the mozzarella, man, this isn't cool. Billy. Seriously, you're supposed to perk right up at the mention of pizza. Billy. Billy. What are you doing, Billy? Billy. Billy, man, _Billy. Oh. Oh god, Billy. _Billy_! I'm going to get help, you just stay put, uh, right, I'm going, don't die on me, Billy, I swear to god I do not want to have to be the guy who finds you dead!_

(If I hadn't been kinda not-alive from the very beginning of that conversation, I'd have totally given that guy an autograph. Only a true bro goes and offers a fellow bro some prime 'za while they're K.O.'d!)

Not to mention, the timing was way bad. I was in the prime of my life. Spence was still thirteen, and that's just a sad time to live in, so I can't say the same about him. But as for me, well. I'm Billy Joe Cobra. Half my underwear's lying around at a bunch of hot girls' houses even now. I can't even remember how many pairs that was. I lost count at eighty-seven because I'd forgotten what number comes after that.

And because of stuff like that, nobody expected me to leave my body behind as a worldly memento so young. I lived enough to make up for everyone out there who wasn't living life. I was _the_ most beloved pop star in the world. And to a select few at Beverly Heights, I was the jerkwad who spoiled the best party of the year by going and puking my guts out on Sonoma Gonzales' front lawn.

But that's enough of that. Let me tell you a little story, bromine. And keep this quiet. The press still thinks I was poisoned and eventually my spirit moved on in the most heartfelt, inspiring way, and I'd like to keep it that way. Gives the Cobra a lil' something to be remembered by, even if that didn't happen at all.

So, get some BJC-brand blankets, warm up some Cobrahead cookies, and we'll get this show rockin'.

* * *

It hadn't been very long since the Jakarta incident. I'd finally returned home after my fourth worldwide tour and third worldwide arrest, ready to party all the stress away.

It just so happened that the night I was coming in, I got a chance to do just that. There was a party, the celebs were in, and the police had been sufficiently bribed. That meant one of my favorite past-times when I got to Beverly Heights.

That meant _hard liquor_.

I've been drinking since I was fourteen, so I knew how to handle this sort of thing. A shot of bourbon and I felt my troubles melt down my throat, into my stomach. And when I puked up the contents of my stomach another two shots later, the troubles went with it. So when I decided to wash away the aftertaste with yet another three shots, I'd never felt so free in my entire life.

And even if I could take my liquor better than anyone else, I thought yet another shot would just be showing off. So, had I survived, I'd have went for a whole fifth. And I'd have been fine if my internal organs were fine with staying internal. Most of the time, I have a liver of Cobra-grade steel.

Thanks to my steel liver, I was just taking shot after shot after shot. The girls loved me. I loved me. I loved how I was a shot _machine_. But as much as love cures all, this brodiculous shot machine had too many shots and got really, really drunk.

I don't think I'd ever been as drunk as I was that night. My arms were jelly. My legs were jelly. My brain was pudding. I remember lots of girls, lots of money, and my gut wrestling with itself not to puke up its contents. Everything was so blurry. I loved Beverly Heights. The girls were so blurry. The money was so blurry. My gut didn't seem to exist. I'm pretty sure my eyes were spinning three-hundred-sixty degrees, over and over again in their sockets.

In fact, I'm also pretty sure that there was a camel on the thirty dollar bill. A _bromedary_ _boonie_. Let me tell you, man, I was just cracking up, staring at that money like it was the funniest thing on Earth while everything went twisty and weird on me. Everyone else was laughing, too, laughing with me, and man, let me tell you how good that felt. It felt _real good_. I loved drinking almost as much as I loved myself.

Now, the rest is hazy. Hours after my first drink, I felt the contents of my stomach knocking at the Cobra's door, so I had to excuse myself, still laughing at that stupid dollar bill. I wanted to go outside to retch. Someone had to steer me away from going out the window. When they turned me away, I felt bile in the back of my throat. After that, I was sprinting. And before anyone knew, I was outside, barfing on the Gonzales' front lawn like nobody's business. At least, that's what I got from everyone who spoke up about it after the party. For all I know, I might have actually went out that window and nearly cracked my head open right there and then.

But the part after that, I remember very clearly. Post-puke, I sorta just…got real ill right there. Dry heaved a little bit. I also think I felt my awareness _stop_ for a second or two. I was crazy dizzy after that, even more so than I was earlier. I remember I was breathing like once every twenty seconds, which freaked me out because that's not normal for a teenage partygoer, so I made it a point to breathe a little faster to try and make up for it. And after people found me just lying there, the bro with the knockout 'za said I looked kinda bluish and pale, he could tell even in the dark of the night.

(Funny he should say that.)

So. That's about it. After about an hour of that ordeal, with the dry heaves and the weird breathing and the blueness, I went really blank - which I'm pretty sure was my brain finally giving up - and then I saw my body sitting there and I freaked out and realized that I was staring at my own body and I was _dead_. I kept trying to get back inside my body but it was like a sealed brick wall, keeping me out and not letting me in.

I got really scared then. It took about eight minutes of me panicking and starting to wonder when I'd be taken to heaven for the guy to find me and inadvertently snap me out of it.

What happened there? You already know the drill. I told you this in the beginning. A bunch of _blah blah blah_ and some screaming later, he ran away.

Though, I admit I forgot to mention that I'd been trying to get the rump broast's attention the entire time. And when he left, I finally figured out that he couldn't tell I was there.

I also figured out that he dropped the pizza. I picked it up and ate it, grass and probable puke traces and all, because, hey, why would you ever waste some quality 'za? Except that's when I noticed I was blue and semitransparent and I freaked again and forgot to eat my pizza for a second there.

After that, a bunch of drunk celeb _buddies_ went to stand around and stare at my body and cry a little bit, then they called 9-1-1 and bailed. I remember that my body just lay there for another good hour, nobody daring to handle it. Then I was found, for the second time, by a gigantic officer (investigating noise complaints) with a thick, greasy brown 'stache and a uniform three sizes too small for him. He called 9-1-1 yet _again _and bailed, and left my body on the puke-covered grass, and after that I stopped paying attention to the losers jerking my body around like a bad omen. Couldn't handle the Cobra, I guess.

'Cuz of that, I don't know where I'm buried or where my funeral was held. I don't know who came to my funeral or if any of my so-called friends mourned me. And I think I'm better off not knowing. I'd rather focus on other things, like being totally rad, getting girls to dig Spencer's chili, or getting my reflection to show up in a mirror.

* * *

Oh, what, you want the full story? The dirty details of my death weren't enough for you, _broteus maximus_? You want to know how I met Spencer?

That's another story, you know. I'm just not sure you're rad enough for it yet.


	2. Chapter 2

_So, yeah, this is a continuation! This one has much less vomit in it, I promise. It's from Spencer's point of view. Right now, Spencer doesn't have as a good a relationship with his family as he does in canon, since even though he likes his mansion, he doesn't like moving and he's subtly cranky. Of course, he won't admit that._

* * *

Honestly, I was expecting…well, not much from Billy Joe Cobra's place.

It was probably a stupid thing to expect, considering this is _Billy_ we're talking about. He had a pet alligator named Wendy, knew only three chords throughout his entire, extremely prosperous career, and had his personal brand of cologne banned in at least thirteen different countries. Looking back on it now, I can't imagine his mansion being any other way.

But then, I didn't really pay much attention to the drillbit when he was alive. I don't know. I only picked up on his entire discography and read his autobiography when I turned fourteen, and even then, I skimmed the last chapter a little.

So, last year, it was a huge astonishment to find that, instead of some regular ol' Beverly Heights villa, I got to live in this monster of a mansion with a private pool, floor-to-ceiling windows, and spacious rooms. I was expecting my new home to have bricks instead of scales, and a puddle rather than a personal lake. I wasn't expecting it to be this whole other _animal_ in the world of rich people's houses.

Granted, it wasn't home, but it _was_ a really expensive-looking mansion, and I think that's the next best thing when it comes to living spaces. Who cares about what you call home anyway? Not this guy, for sure.

Those were the thoughts I was thinking just standing there in the front entrance/rotunda. Boxes were everywhere, littered around without concern regarding any 14-year-old directors wanting to get around the first floor of the house. Still, somehow, Mom was flitting about like a hyperactive butterfly, prodding and staring at any material object the dearly departed BJC left exposed.

"Ugh, Mom, don't tell me you're giving Spencer the good bedroom this time! I thought we agreed that I need plenty of space for my equipment!" Jessica said.

I rolled my eyes. Mom was slightly distracted.

"Oh, honey, I think Spencer deserves the bigger bedroom this time. I can't count the number of times we've had to fix the ceiling because of that one time you used the punching bag as…a…what was it?"

"A playground swing," I helpfully offered.

"Yes, yes, a playground swing. You only did it because you had the 'big room'! Look what that led to. So much money on repairs! I didn't even get to buy that new French curling iron until it was obsolete."

Mom uses air quotes because she wants to seem cool, and, well, I guess she is cool. But definitely not in the kind of way that involves air quotes. And it doesn't really have the same effect when you're air quoting in front of a giant portrait of a beaming rock star guy with a _huge_-lapeled jacket.

"But Mom! I was seven then! I'm twelve now, and I deserve it!"

"Well…now, Jessica, it's also not fair to my baby boy. When's he had a big room to himself? Look at me, sweetie. Since you're such a big girl, you can handle a room just like your old one," Mom said. She kissed my forehead in that weird motherly way, then suddenly turned her head. "Ooh, Hugh! Look at this living room! So _modern_!"

Jessica wisely gave up the protests and frowned, exaggeratedly mouthing "baby boy" at me. I only closed my eyes and stuck my tongue out in response. She screwed up her face and gave me the best stinkeye she had to retaliate, but both of us knew that I'd won this round.

"Ugh! Fine! You guys are all on my list!" Jessica whined, stomping off to her new room like someone'd just beaten her in a karate competition.

I laughed a lot right there and then. I didn't care about the size of the room, though spacious it may be: I just wanted to watch Jessica have to sit there and _deal_ _with_ not getting her way. It was almost as good as post-primetime horror movie reruns.

Unfortunately, I was too busy cracking up at Jessica's expense to get away from the local parental watchguards. Dad came up beside me, carrying a saw in his left hand, patting me on the shoulder with his right, and uncomfortably pressing against my arm with his potbelly.

"Well, son, this is it! We're moving in!"

I braced myself for what was to come.

"Checked out the garage. There's plenty of room for my stuff, and any other stuff I might buy here. Oh boy, it's a handyman's dream! It could even have enough room for your own woodworking kit, Spencer. What do you think, maybe we can do some father-son projects, eh?"

Despite the way he phrased his question, he didn't wait for my response. Thank god.

"We'd sure have plenty of space to make at least a birdhouse. But then, we could make a birdhouse in any one of these rooms if it were safe. Say, how's _your_ room looking?"

"Ah…well. I haven't gone in yet. I was talking to Mom about which room I can have."

"I see! You wanted the biggest one, huh? For all that space for your film machines. I mean…uh, equipment? I think that's the word you told me to say."

He coughed a little. I rubbed my eyes in desperation.

"Don't tell your sister this, but I hope she didn't snatch that room from under your nose - like she did last time we moved houses!"

I love my dad, but sometimes I just don't want to deal with his gentle, fatherly spirit. I get enough of that from unwanted potbelly-Spencer contact.

This time, I spoke quickly and acted quicker.

"Nah, but I still get to have it anyways - s'pretty neat - so, I think I'll go check it out - tell you all about it when I finish setting up. Bye, Dad!" With that, I grabbed a box of my clothes and sprinted to my room, which wasn't actually very fast since those stupid moving boxes were literally _everywhere_.

Dad was probably looking on, confused. I make him do that a lot.

You see, I'm not a fan of the kind of stuff my dad does, no matter how manly and macho it may be. So it's no surprise that I don't like to spend too much time with him. I'd rather film a movie about a wicked mutant birdhouse than make an ordinary one, you get it?

Oh man, that would be a great movie: _The Birdhouse_, a Spencer Wright film. All about a birdhouse that one ordinary man builds, only for it to come to life and trap anything from pigeons to people inside it…

Wait, what am I saying? I'm supposed to be talking about the room. Oh man, the room! Let me tell you, it was the one thing I really liked about this mansion. I'm kinda glad Mom insisted that I have it, now that I think about it.

We'd initially received a map of the whole place back when the legal guy was still proclaiming my mom Billy's heir. I can't even imagine why Mom got to inherit the place: didn't the great BJC have other people he could give the Cobra Mansion to? And from there, we chose our rooms just by looking at which rooms were "empty", since we didn't really want to disturb Billy's stuff if at all possible. It'd mess up the "fame factor".

(More like the "lame factor", if you ask me. I'd have been totally fine with setting up in any non-weird room of his! It's not like we were going to give out tours of the mansion, were we?)

Unfortunately, just three "empty" rooms remained after Billy's interior decoration, so Dad couldn't have his personal metal-cutting room, Mom couldn't have her personal salon, Jessica couldn't have her…personal dojo, and I couldn't have my personal green-screen room. At least there was enough room for all of us to have a bedroom. And somehow, I got the biggest room of all, even though Mom and Dad probably needed it more.

Well, you know what most people say under these kinda circumstances: more for me!

After a bunch of worming through hallways, navigating by "which door seems to have a lack of breeding pools of angry, wild animals" and even getting lost in a Cobra deluxe bathroom, I finally found my way to my room. The first thing I did was sigh in relief and dump my things in it. My stuff, packed up in that box, looked _hella_ tiny inside.

I stared at it for a moment, thinking something was off. And when I realized just how tiny it looked, I stepped back, surveyed my space, and let my jaw drop right to the floor.

It was huge, first of all, let's get out right where we can see it so we don't spend entire centuries discussing just how huge it is. I've never had a bigger room in all my life. And second of all, it had this great view of the front yard, something that would be good in my future movies. "Ding dong, I'm a zombie at your front gates!" And third of all, it was completely void of weird Billy Joe juju. No tiki masks, no self-portraits, no rock n' roll motifs - just an empty room. It's almost like he'd been preparing the room for me back when he was still alive.

(Heheheheh. Sure. _Alive_.)

That's why, after that, I did what any person would do. I skipped around, dancing and shouting and laughing like a lunatic, mouth open in absolute glee and my hollering probably filling the entire house, because _oh my god this is the best room in the world I could just kiss its designer on the mouth right now I could make so many movies just in this one room_.

Just then, Jessica burst in, fuming so hard smoke was practically blowing out of her ears. Clearly, her room was not so celebration-inducing.

"You don't have to rub it in my face, Dumb-cer!" she said, eye twitching. I stopped immediately: this was one of the telltale signs of an incoming pounding.

"Sorry, sis. You know it's only 'cuz I like being in this r…_house_ so much."

"Sure you do," Jessica spat in reply. "I'm only here because Mom's calling you to dinner. Otherwise I'd be pounding you into dust! Be sure to turn up late, dweeb."

"So you can look better than me and get this _sweet _pad? Forget it!"

Smiling victoriously, I swaggered right out, past Jessica, and nearly slammed the door in her face. She stared vengefully at me, then at the doorknob, then back at me, before scampering off to go whine at Mom again.

When she was out of earshot, I quickly snuck another glance at my room. Everything was as awesome as I remembered. I closed the door, took a moment to sigh dreamily at my luck, and walked back to the front entrance, remembering where to go from there and dashing to the dinner table.

As it so happens, I did arrive a little late. But Mom and Dad didn't really seem to care, since they were just so excited about the house, it overpowered any other emotions they were capable of having.

I groaned as soon as Dad opened his mouth.

"Sport, you made it! Oh, as soon as we finish your mother's delicious dinner, I'm spending all day in the garage. Speaking of dinner, did I tell you how excited your mother is to cook in a fully-stocked rock star kitchen for the first time?"

"You did, Dad," I reminded him, tapping my fingers on the table to distract myself.

"Great! Oh, look, here she comes now - it looks delicious, Jane - say, could you kids pass me the mashed potatoes - and the spoon too, Jessica - thank you, sweetie - oh, my, your mother's cooking is even more delicious here - you're welcome, Jane - say, sport, you have to try these mashed potatoes - here, let me put some on that plate for you - oops - oh, I'm sorry, Spencer - uh, honey, do mashed potatoes come out of sneakers - well, now! See, son, they do - it'll be okay, don't get upset - you know I didn't _mean_ it - ooh, is that asparagus?"

I stayed mostly quiet throughout the entire dinner after that incident, since I was angry over my _temporarily_ ruined sneakers, Jessica was whining enough to make up for my initial silence, and Mom and Dad were too busy raving about their new rooms and kitchens and garages to notice me.

I tapped my feet on the floor underneath the table for a second, but the sound it produced was drowned out by the sounds my family produced. I groaned to myself again.

Even though I was sitting at the table with my _family_, I honestly felt alienated. And not even in the cool way, with the little green men. I felt kinda bad. Even if I did get a killer room out of them.

"Uh, can I go eat in my room? You know, the excitement, it's all getting to me, I just _have_ to unpack, haha!" I lied hastily, hoping to get out of this family dinner as soon as possible.

"Sure, honey. Just remember to finish _everything_ this time!"

I started leaving, but I still heard her say, "I want your stomach to be full of these wonderful family memories! Oh, shoot, you should have brought your camera, so we could get all of it on tape. Honey, if you can hear me, bring a camera to the next family dinner!"

I didn't really pay attention to what she was saying, though. I just felt some tea kettle in the shape of my brain start steaming and whistling, louder and louder, and I knew I had to get away from that looney bin before my tea kettle brain started boiling over.

Before I knew it, I was back at my room. My perfect, totally radtacular room. I opened the door and prepared to eat on the floor before unpacking my box.

But there was more than one box inside.

In fact, all eight of my boxes, as well as my mattress, were moved in, sitting there with their flaps open and otherwise completely normally placed. They weren't emptied, though: just moved.

I stopped in the doorway, confused. I distinctly remembered just _one_ box.

But of course, I didn't give myself time to overthink this, assuming that maybe the movers had come by again to help out and merely didn't bother ringing the doorbell to be let in. Even though that was ridiculous. I honestly didn't care. I just sat down on the floor, finished my mashed potatoes (Dad was right - they _are_ delicious), and went to go unpack my things.

First thing was the race car bed, which I had to assemble from its dismantled state. It took less than an hour: even if I'm not good at assembling things in general, I had plenty of practice putting my bed together from when Dad taught me how to do it from memory. If there had to be one thing I'd praise Dad for, it was that.

After that, I dug the bedspread out from a different box, picked up the mattress, and fit it into the according space in my bed. Then, I got sorta lazy and just fell right into my uncovered mattress, absentmindedly licking the front of my teeth.

I momentarily pondered what it'd be like, living here. If the people at school would be chill or if they'd be total tools. If Mom, Dad, and Jessica would ever get over their fame complexes. If I'd make any friends, or be able to keep in touch with old ones. While I was thinking about whose phone numbers I remembered (none), I might have drifted off a little. Before I knew it, I was fast asleep.

The last thing I felt was this sort of cold draft on my cheek. It blew hard enough to squish my face a little. Which would be normal, except, as far as I know, I never turned on the air conditioning.


End file.
